A Story About Cecil
by eleanoralovesananias
Summary: This is a story about Cecil, and you were concerned because Cecil is usually the one speaking, not being spoken about. And when you heard the word "re-education," you were very concerned for him. Very concerned indeed. (Cecilos, graphic scenes.)
1. Chapter 1

"Goodnight, listeners. Goodnight."

Cecil turned off the microphone - the one on the board, that broadcast to the entire town. The ones in the walls, that broadcast only to the Sheriff's Secret Police, were always on. He sighed contentedly, unclipped the second microphone from his shirt, took off his headphones, and pushed his blond hair out of his third eye.

Josh Watson from the Sheriff's Secret Police watched the radio host from just behind him, no expression on his face, which was strangely blistered on one side. Half of his scalp was covered in brown, normal-looking hair - the other half was bare and similarly blistered. When Cecil turned around, the catch in the radio host's breath and the change in his expression was attune to someone who had been preparing to be punished for a long, long time, but had pushed the thought to the back of his head, where it had coagulated like a small, sticky stone of dread - dread of something hidden and guilty brought to light.

"Hi, Cecil," said Josh.

"Why, hello, Josh," said Cecil. The pleasant surprise in his voice was practiced, smooth, skilled. One got the impression that this conversation was following a recorded pattern, that it had been had many times before.

"I love your show. We all do at the Sheriff's office," said Josh.

"Thank you, Josh. What a kind thing to say," said Cecil.

"Now, unfortunately, you again mentioned mountains. I understand we all make up slip-ups, especially people with dangerously free imaginations such as yours, but sadly this is your third slip-up in a week," said Josh.

"Oh, that's terrible. So sorry," said Cecil.

Josh brought out a small iron rod, fiddling with it, careful not to touch it. Cecil's two main eyes locked onto it, while his third rolled erratically around, darting from possible exit to possible exit. Josh looked pityingly at the radio host. "I'm not sorry about this, Cecil. I completely agree with the tyrant - ah, I mean the Sheriff - and all his policies regarding reeducation, even when it applies to good people - sorry, naughty citizens - like yourself," he said, without any sympathy for the man he admired at all.

Cecil swallowed. His third eye came to rest, pointing straight up at the ceiling. It blinked once, slowly, and then did nothing at all. "Reeducation?" The word was another slip-up, a tiny, gasped out variation in the otherwise perfected script.

Josh Waston's bright yellow left eye twitched up to meet Cecil's in warning, while his deep black right one remained perfectly placid, as it had been trained. Cecil quickly retracted his slip-up.

"Of course, Josh, of course. I'm glad you're so good at your job. Without alert and unrestrainedly brutal peace-keepers like yourself, who knows what kind of degenerate, democratic place Night Vale might be?" Cecil said.

Josh nodded exaggeratedly, so the motion was quite clear to the cameras. "Thank you, Cecil. I'm glad you understand."

The young radio show host slowly stood up and allowed Josh to take his upper arm and lead him out the the waiting black van. Once having made his guest (not prisoner) fully comfortable in his city-issued restraints and blindfold, Josh walked around the van three times before climbing into the driver's seat and scanning his pinky finger to unlock the steering wheel. He started the vehicle and turned off the cameras and microphones, a rare privilege afforded only to Sheriff's Secret Police officers of a certain rank, and only while transporting a citizen for reeducation.

Josh turned to look at Cecil, wanting to make eye contact, and felt silly when he remembered that his guest (not prisoner) was blindfolded. (Cecil was actually blindfolded twice; it took two blindfolds to cover all three of his eyes.) He turned back to look out the windows. "Don't be too afraid. It's just minor reeducation, not a full-on soul extraction like that one time when you implied that the moon was a celestial body and not an ancient luminescent being that must be sacrificed to twice a month." He paused, touching his blistered face. "Unfortunately - and don't be too scared - this is the sixth time we've had to remind you about the mountains, so there will be a small amount of torture."

Cecil inhaled deeply. "Thank you, Josh," he stated, and meant it. It was kind of the officer to tell him specifically what was ahead. Cecil hated vagueness and mystery, which is a difficult perspective when one lives in Night Vale. A small smile appeared on the half of Josh's face that had recognizable features. He knew this, and it made him happy when he had an opportunity to be kind. These opportunities were rare for an officer.

"Josh?"

"Yes, Cecil?"

"I had a date planned for tonight. Is there any way I could be home in time?" Cecil asked, slightly worried about Carlos.

Josh winced slightly - partially because of Cecil's worry, partially because his face hurt. "I'm afraid not. You most likely won't be back until morning."

Cecil nodded, not really having expected anything else. "May I - may I call him? I don't want him to worry."

"I'll see what I can do." That meant 'no'.

The rest of the drive passed in silence until Josh pulled up at the secret reeducation center in the sand wastes, near Radon Canyon. He pulled the blindfolded and handcuffed radio show host out of the car and led him into the building with unusual, even suspicious tenderness. Cecil felt the back of the chair. Wires were connected to his wrists, ankles, chest, neck and temples - everywhere major arteries resided. He took a deep breath and swallowed. Josh's feet clicked away.

The blindfold over Cecil's third eye was removed, and it rolled upward to see the terse, pale face of the genderless biomolecular engineer. The engineer wore a blue Sheriff's Secret Police uniform, with the purple epaulettes that represented an official city scientist. That made him think of Carlos. It hurt.

The engineer tugged on the wires to make sure they were fully connected to each of Cecil's major arteries. Then they leaned over a rack full of surgical tools and selected a large needle with a tiny clamp at the pointed end and an electrical node at the other. They connected the node to another wire, which in turn was connected to a microphone.

Cecil started to cry as the thin-lipped and bloodless engineer pressed his head backwards and shaved a small strip of blond hair away, starting on his hairline just above his third eye and ending about halfway along his scalp. Milky tears dripped out of his purplish tear ducts. His lips trembled with fear of what he knew was coming.

The engineer tested the clamp on the end of the needle. Then they swabbed the strip of exposed skin on Cecil's scalp. Cecil bit hard on his lip, muffling a sobbing howl of pain, when the needle plunged through skin, bone, and several inches of brain. A painful pinching jerk signaled that the clamp had attached itself to what he had managed to glean from Carlos was his Broca's area. Cecil focused on breathing. He knew from experience that he had just lost his ability to form meaningful words. For a man who made his living by speaking, a man whose pride and joy was his eloquence, that knowledge was both frightening and humiliating. He felt unspeakably violated.

The engineer tapped twice on the microphone. Cecil convulsed in pain. "One, two," they intoned. The guest (not prisoner) echoed on the inside, every instinct and hormone susurrating, _One, two._ "One, two," his lips whispered. They moved of their own accord. The words were too compelling, too natural. "One, two."

The engineer appeared smug, which only made their lips even thinner and paler. They skillfully manipulated a few dials on the microphone, amused by Cecil's twitching in response. There were very few diversions on this job. The only two were feeling superior about one's training and skill, and sizeable but justifiable measures of sadism. Maybe someday they would be rewarded for their slack apathy regarding their guests (not prisoners). They had heard that was an agreeable quality among officers. The engineer could fool themself into daydreams of the silver epaulettes of an officer, and being let out of the reeducation facility into the open sunshine, which they had heard was quite beautiful.

Cecil was crying a steady stream of white tears. The engineer finally got bored of playing with the dials as Cecil went limp and waited, resigning himself to the pain, which was less fun. The engineer reset the dials to the recommended settings for optimal reeducation. They intoned into the microphone: "Mountains do not exist."

Cecil quivered with the words. They were so loud and close that it hurt to hear them, while still his brain screamed them out. They felt bright and harsh and... beautiful. "Mountains do not exist," he murmured. "Mountains do.. do not exist." He said it again and again, helplessly savoring the pleasure of compliance. The needle burned. The words trickled over the pain like cool water. The words felt right. The words were good. "Mountains do not exist," Cecil repeated, now with complete surety. "Mountains do not exist."

Throughout the night, Cecil alternately shrieked in pain and chanted the words that made the pain stop. The moon rose and the stars twinkled while everyone pretended to sleep.

Carlos alone sat with his back to Cecil's front door. The night was growing old, and the scientist's eyes were red-rimmed and painfully dry. They had not been dry ten minutes before. Cecil had not answered the door, or his cell phone, or repeated pleas to the blank stone walls of his home. Curlicues of insecurity and fear squirmed in the scientist's gut. Say Cecil was inside and simply refusing to speak to his boyfriend? Say Carlos had done something unspeakably rude? One never knew, in the completely unparalleled culture that was Night Vale. Say Cecil - Carlos went cold at the thought - broke up with him? What would he do then?

The bloodless light of the early morning played across Carlos's sleeping form propped against his boyfriend's door. It touched Cecil's cheeks and warmed his face through the pair of thick black blindfolds that covered it. Officer Josh Watson gently carried the exhausted, barely conscious radio show host to his door. His tongue darted into his cheek and hid there when he saw Carlos. He pushed the sleeping man out of the way with his boot and tenderly laid Cecil on the couch, then returned to drag Carlos in and lay him on the floor. The officer clandestinely exited the house and drove away.

Around noon, Cecil awoke to find Carlos kneeling over him with a warm wet cloth, pressing it to his temples. "That feels nice," Cecil mumbled placidly, causing Carlos to jump. The scientist's dark eyes swept over him, full of relief and concern. "You're okay, Cecil?" he asked anxiously. "I remember someone I didn't recognize dumping us both in here. You were, um, in a car or something. He brought you here." Carlos glanced at him sideways. "It was, uh, a black van. With tinted windows. I, I don't think I was dreaming."

Cecil closed his eyes. As Carlos learned more about the way Night Vale was run, it was inevitable that someday they would have to have the "reeducation talk," as Night Vale parents termed it. Cecil had hoped to put it off, to spare his boyfriend's innocence a little longer, but better now. Better to tell him how it worked before he had a 'slip-up' of his own.

Cecil hoisted himself upright and tilted his head forward, showing Carlos the strip of shaved skin. He could trust in his boyfriend's scientific training to deduce the rest.

Carlos stared. The black van, the tinted windows, the man he hadn't recognized. He disliked making leaps, but that mark was definitely made by a needle. The scientist tried to push away the insidious thought, _experimentation_. He failed. Carlos swallowed hard and asked shakily, "Cecil - what, what did they..." he swallowed again, "did they do to you?"

Cecil smiled weakly, trying to reassure the agitated scientist. "It's really no big deal, Carlos," he said lightheartedly. The tone was as fake as when he used it to talk about "new station management." He paused, forming the words properly. "Every Night Vale parent talks to their children about this at some point, but since you didn't grow up here..."

Carlos's stomach sank. Another twisted reality of this dangerous fascist town. How did Night Vale possibly consider itself part of the United States of America? "What, Cecil?"

Cecil's smile was huge and instinctive. "I just mentioned some incorrect facts on my show, that's all. I'd been slipping up quite a lot. I had to be... well, reeducated." His smile quavered.

Carlos stared at him, shocked. The scientist had always thought of Cecil as innocent, naive, sincere, and candid. It had not occurred to him that these were dangerous traits here. He could see that in the paleness of his boyfriend's face. The look there was of a kind of exhaustion that could only come from prolonged physical pain. His boyfriend had been... tortured, he realized, appalled. Not just last night, but many, many times.

Carlos, not knowing what else to do, wrapped his arms around his boyfriend and rocked him back and forth, humming an old lullaby. Cecil began to softly cry into Carlos's chest.

A camera moved to focus on the two. A man with half his face horribly burnt watched them, with a look that was neither apathy nor indifference. "Cecil's a good man," he mumbled. "A good man. A man who deserves better." He turned to a screen, and pressed a few keys.

 _"Entered: Carlos,"_ echoed the computer. _"Now listed as: wanted. Five hundred dollar reward for: dead body of: Carlos."_

"Goodnight, Cecil," Carlos murmured reassuringly. "Goodnight."


	2. Chapter 2

Cheesy cartoons blared from the screen of Cecil's television, which was at least as old as his radio equipment if not older. A bowl of popcorn sat on Carlos' lap; it was lavender-flavored and green, but the scientist supposed it wasn't too bad, considering it was his boyfriend's favorite.

Cecil lifted his head from Carlos' shoulder as a knock was heard at the door. "Now, I wonder who that could be," he mused drowsily. The Faceless Old Woman screeched, rattling the windows, which if Cecil had been more awake he might have recognized as a warning. Instead he unlatched the door and opened it - to see a young man in a blue uniform, with silver epaulettes. This one was blond, with piercings along his upper ear that writhed and slithered in and out of his flesh. He held his hat (a small purple beret) in his hands as if making a next-of-kin notification. Cecil recognized the signs from many, many intern funerals. His stomach tried to climb up his esophagus, and he constricted his air pipe with his hands to prevent its escape.

"Hello, Cecil," the officer said politely. Officers tended to be polite or even friendly to Cecil. Everyone did. It was hard not to like him. But this officer's eyes were trained on the room behind him. The radio show host knew instinctively that this particular officer's business was not with him. But then... it must be with...

Cecil's stomach made a high-pitched shrieking noise and tried to rip its way out of his abdomen. He pressed both hands against his belly, his third eye beginning to roll spasmodically as it usually did when he was stressed or... afraid.

"What's going on?" Carlos asked from the living room, leaning sideways to see around Cecil.

The officer's lime green eyes snapped around to rest on him like a cat's following its prey. He said delicately, "Actually, sir, you are."

Cecil slammed the door in his face.

Carlos stared at his boyfriend, somewhere between surprise and shock. Since his first day in Night Vale, he had noted Cecil as being ridiculously passive. He believed and reported anything his bosses told him. The perfect little drone. This was a man who voluntarily reported for torture. (Carlos's stomach flipped at the memory. He hadn't been able to stop his boyfriend, who was convinced that it was his 'civic duty' to report to the secret police like he had been ordered. The man's crying that evening and tormented nightmares the same night had been almost too much to bear.)

Carlos was shaken out of his wandering thoughts when Cecil tackled him to the floor. Carlos skidded sideways off the couch and landed in a heap on the floor, Cecil on top of him. The radio show host wrapped a few tentacles protectively around him and turned. The scientist was shocked to see his boyfriend pull a six-inch-long machine gun from under his sweater vest, load it, and aim it at the door. His every movement was smooth and skilled. _How much practice has he had with that thing?_ Carlos wondered, still horrified. _And where the heck did he get a six-inch long machine gun?_

The officer cracked the door like an egg. Cecil began firing. He began to cry in terror as the officer strode easily through the rain of bullets. Of _course_ he did. Cecil himself had the promotional bumper sticker: "Guns don't kill people! It's impossible to be killed by a gun; we are all invincible to bullets, and it's a miracle." He'd bought it the same day he first met Carlos.

The officer, who silently introduced himself as Minas through official NVSL (Night Vale Sign Language), picked up Cecil by the collar of his shirt and deposited him on the other side of the couch, his unnaturally neon lime-green eyes fixed on Carlos. Said scientist of the perfect hair was becoming nervous as it became clear that the officer wanted something with him, something that was not good. No, actually he wasn't nervous. He was more... concerned. "What do you want with me?" he blurted out.

Shock filled both Minas's two eyes and Cecil's three purple ones. The scientist's boyfriend covered his mouth in horror, and Carlos looked around, wondering what he'd done wrong.

Minas swallowed tactfully. "Charming," he commented, sounding strained. "So... direct."

Cecil quickly stood up for his beloved boyfriend, piping, "He's not from Night Vale - I mean, our beloved town. He doesn't understand the procedure for unjust arrests - sorry, alert peacekeeping."

Carlos turned red. Had Cecil - naïve, even childish Cecil - just _apologized_ for him? A man who thought a carnival was a threat to national security had just apologized for his behavior like he was some small child crying in a grocery store. He stared incredulously at his boyfriend, who gave him an apologetic look.

Minas, meanwhile, nodded curtly and resumed his business. "Now. Carlos, is it?"

"Um, y-"

Horrified, Cecil flung out a thin arm and smacked Carlos in the face with his sharp elbow. "Ow!" cried the scientist, startled. What was up with everyone today? He gave a perplexed look to his boyfriend, his eyebrows knitted in a question.

Cecil swallowed.

Carlos stared at his worried and contrite face, third eye squeezed shut, and a horrible realization quietly opened a side door in his mind and dawdled there in the shadows, like an actor who has come late to a performance and guiltily waits where he won't disturb the show. The realization took a step further into his mind. Carlos's brown eyes widened. Another step, into the light where it could not be ignored. _No. No, that isn't possible._

The officer in their living room, knocking on the door with the silver epaulettes and his hat in his hands - the terror in Cecil's eyes - the unexpected resistance his boyfriend had put up - memories of nights when Cecil had curled on the couch and sobbed, needle marks dotting his pale skin. It all fit together. They had come for him. They had _come_ for him.

Carlos reacted like any normal, non-Night Vale-raised person would. He bolted.

The scientist tripped over the couch, skidded along the floor, scrambled to his feet and ran for his life. Cecil was shocked; what kind of idiot would _run_ from the Secret Police? Minas strode quickly and calmly towards the desperate scientist. When it seemed that Carlos was about to escape, he simply bent reality and appeared in front of him.

Carlos screamed, out loud, showing his pearly teeth. His dark face was slick with fear, his pupils enlarged as if they were going to make a final bid for freedom and pop out of his head. "No!" he screamed. "This is sick! You're all sick! I want to go home!"

Minas calmly forced his head back and inserted a syringe into his neck. Carlos did not _fall_ so much as relaxed, muscles collapsing in a wave from the tips of his long fingers up his lean arms, cresting at his shoulders, and sighing down to the knuckles of his toes. His head lolled back.

Cecil may have inhaled something that sounded like words garbled through a sob and a gasp, respectively. Minas turned to him, his brilliant, shallow lime-green eyes sparkling with malice in contrast to his slack expression. "Name: Cecil Gershwin-Palmer. Confirm?"

Cecil let his eyes fall shut. "Confirmed," he said dismally.

"Charge: Assault towards an officer. Confirm?"

He should have known this was coming. At least he and Carlos would be together. "Confirmed."

"Come with me."

Cecil had lived in Night Vale his whole life. He knew how things worked. He liked the peace and safety the rules afforded, even if he didn't always agree with the rules themselves. But he knew that Carlos didn't. Carlos was an outsider, someone who could never understand how dystopia could be beautiful. He pitied the naïve youth who still believed in things like justice and the laws of physics. He felt sadder than he ever had while he helped the officer with Carlos' restraints and allowed himself to be strapped in. Leave it to him to fall in love with a scientist.

Minas, unlike Josh, saw no reason to turn off the microphones and have a real conversation with his guest (not prisoner). Minas didn't have enough rank to do so anyway. His long fingers reached spideringly over to a few controls on the dashboard and pulled a lever up. A jolt of electricity, meant to discipline an unruly guest (not prisoner) shot through Cecil's chair and restraints, eliciting a moan of pain. Minas smiled, sharp teeth just barely showing under his lifted upper lip, a merry light dancing in his lime-green eyes.

Most officers liked Cecil. Most officers even respected him. Most officers did their job out of duty and to feed their families, not with pleasure. Most officers were not bad people.

Minas was not most officers.

He was technically a low-ranking officer, just a year out of training, but he had bigger plans than that. Much bigger. As a child, his parents had been taken by the vague, yet menacing government agency, and forced to leave him behind. There was no orphanage in Night Vale. There was no need for one. Without parents, who would supervise the child's learning to use chemical weapons? Who would enroll him in the Boy Scouts? Who would force-feed him his daily slice of Big Rico's Pizza? No, orphans were better off not growing up at all. And so he had been dropped off inside the place that no one ever returned from: the library.

Yet, against all odds, he had survived. He had made no elementary mistakes: stayed in the shadows, out of the fiction section, made no noise, learned to hunt rats for meat and eat the pages of books for fiber. When he was seven years old, he had killed his first librarian. He had grown up in a place most Night Vale residents never dared to look at for too long. So when Tamika Flynn and her tough, well-read band of young fighters came upon him, he was not afraid. He learned from them that he was old enough now to live on his own, if he wanted. Better yet, if he wanted, he could live with them. Upon learning how long he had survived in the library, and the number of librarians he had killed (he had a grand total of four, more than even Tamika herself), she had offered him a life in her army on the spot. He had looked around at the hardened but warmhearted bunch, the way they supported each other and looked after the youngest and respected the older, and he had nearly cried for joy. In celebration, he had offered them the pages of _Five Weeks in a Balloon_ dipped in sugar and soaked to make them moister.

Tamika, horrified, had withdrawn her offer.

They had escorted him to the exit of the library and left him there, alone again, without any hope, without knowledge of how Night Vale worked at all.

Yet once again, he had not only survived, but thrived. He had learned the laws, the customs, the unwritten rules, and worked within them and just occasionally without them to his own advantage. In time, he knew he could do anything he wanted. He always had. But now he had a reason to survive besides survival itself. Tamika Flynn who had judged him and found him unworthy, and the vague, yet menacing government agency which had taken his parents away from him, and the whole sickening town who accepted the sacrifice of terrified children to serve their dystopian sycophancy. They would pay, in time. In time.

Meanwhile, Cecil and his stupid boyfriend would be very helpful. If he played his cards right, he could get the voice of Night Vale under his thumb. Despite any official chain of command, Cecil Gershwin-Palmer really had more power over the people than any officer. Even here, in totalitarian Night Vale, the media always has power over the government. It was only a question of having a reason to excercise it. And thanks to his superior Josh Watson's unrequited jealousy, he had a perfectly good reason to use Mr. Carlos as leverage. Love was so often an excellent motivator.

They pulled up at the secret reeducation facility in the sand wastes. Minas climbed out of the dark van and looked up at the large, weathered black cylindrical building, windowless and with one simple white door in front, giving the impression of being anything but the house of cruelty and pain it was. His expression was one of disgust. Once he had used this unwholesome practice to climb up the ranks, he would get rid of it altogether.

Minas unchained Cecil and hauled him, still blindfolded, out of the van. He threw the still-unconscious Carlos over his shoulder and strode into the facility, pushing Cecil in front of him. Cecil was still crying silently. Carlos was limp.

Inside was a spacious atrium with enormous, graceful statues hooded with black cloth except for clawed stone hands that extended from their cloaks, spilling water jets into vein-shaped networks of basins crisscrossing the room, but Minas paid no attention, and his two guests (not prisoners) were blindfolded and did not notice. His boots thumped towards the tiny, anticlimactic steel door on the far end of the atrium.

Minas kicked open the enormous cat flap at the bottom of the door. He dumped Carlos on the ground (he hit brokenly with a firm "thud" and failed to move or wake) and shoved him through with his boot, then forced Cecil down on his knees and kicked him until he crawled and felt his way through.

The pale, long-nailed hands of the genderless biomolecular engineer crept wonderingly through the cat flap, wriggling in the cool air.

Minas cautiously pulled a clump of thick green grass, spilling soft, dark humus onto the marble floors, out from his blue coat's pocket. He placed it - cool, earthy proof of the sunlit world outside - into the soft, thin hands that had never felt natural light. They closed sensually on the essential, spiritual substance, and were gone. In return, a tiny slip of paper was shoved through the slot. _Agreed officer_ , read Minas silently.

A serene, yet disturbingly contemptuous smile poked its way through Minas' teeth and crawled up his face like a bloodsoaked maggot out of the rotting, diseased body of an old man who died in his sleep, surrounded by loved ones.

The biomolecular engineer pulled Cecil to his feet on the other side. He stood, turning his head from side to side as if he were looking around, despite the fact that he couldn't see anything. He had recovered well from the initial fear and despair of the capture, and was ready for whatever came next - for himself and Carlos. He just hoped that his boyfriend would trust him well enough not to try to escape. He shuddered at what they would do to him if he tried.


End file.
